


Ashes, Snow and Stars

by derpyminstrel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abuse of italics, Awkward Tension, Feelings Realization, Historical Inaccuracy, Internal Monologue, M/M, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Songfic, Translation, World War II, an attempt was made, but it ends well I promise, he is smitten your honour, i promise i did my research, unintentional st exupery reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25069660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derpyminstrel/pseuds/derpyminstrel
Summary: One can't watch two falling stars at the same time. This is what Aziraphale is thinking about on their way to the bookshop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Ashes, Snow and Stars

\- Lift home?

Aziraphale watches Crowley heading to the big shining black car (gosh, it must be a Royce or something, he might think, but he doesn't) the same way one watches a shooting star on the night sky, when all other stars and planets seem to disappear from the sight, and the wishes are rushing in your mind - which one to make, which one of them is worth making?

If a shooting star traced the clear dark sky of London right now, Aziraphale wouldn't hesitate for a second.

There are two reasons it cannot happen. Firstly, no one can watch two shooting stars at a time. Especially if one of them happens also to be the wish you want to make to the other one.

Secondly, the sky above London is rarely clear. It was so when Aziraphale was crossing the church yard, but now thick cold heavy clouds are filling it rapidly. Chilly November night backs off from the heat of the fire that devours the church benches and broken joists, and the hot air sweeps the ashes and dust up to the sky.

\- Angel?  
Aziraphale follows the call like in a strange dream, his tongue frozen, his legs suddenly weak.

It's not a Rolls-Royce - it's a Bentley, thoroughly polished, looking good as new. Maybe it is actually new - not that Aziraphale knows a lot about cars. He takes the front passenger's seat, weights himself down with Mr. Harmony's case and stares into the windscreen speckled with waterdrops from melting snowflakes.

The engine's roaring seems to be somewhere far away from them as the car speeds through the dim-lit streets, through the soot-black night cut up to the clouds with the searchlights. Crowley's hands are holding the wheel; Aziraphale tries not to look at them and fails again and again, and can't help clenching his fingers with his left palm, because they burn from a mere memory of a touch.

Never has he ever been this confused and at the same time this sure of anything in his entire life.  
 _  
He knew I will forget about the books.  
For Heavens's sake, I didn't know myself I will forget about them!  
I really forgot about them, didn't I?  
I could only think of... oh, God.  
Oh God, oh God, oh, God.  
He walked into a church.  
After everything I said to him.  
Wasn't it like eighty years... oh my God._

Of course, Crowley hasn't changed the slightest - the clothes don't count; his hair is styled back fashionably, gleaming copper in dim street lighting; his new glasses don't cover his eyes from the sides. Only when he half-turns to Aziraphale and raises an eyebrow, the angel realizes he has been staring at him for a few minutes already, so he looks away, catches Crowley's gaze in the rear view mirror and looks away again even more hastily.  
 _  
It's absolutely impossible.  
Out of question.  
Unrealistic.  
Utter rubbish.  
He can't...  
He's a demon, after all!  
And I am an angel.  
It's mere professional duties.  
Job descriptions, right?  
Lord, this must be some kind of a fever dream._

The snowfall is waltzing in the wind behind the windscreen. The autumn is really cold this year - it's not even December yet, and here is the first snow already, and the angel watches its silent dance in some baffled admiration, not unlike the very first time he saw the snow.  
Yes, Aziraphale loves the snow.

He loves the snow, and the crispy cold winter mornings (that are much more common on the continent than in Britain), and the golden leaves of October. He loves the primroses in the parks, and the sea breeze, and the lazy cotton-like clouds painted pink and golden by the sunset, and the blooming cherries, and red apples in the grass, and all the hundreds and thousands of the Earth's wonders, great and small. He loves the rain too, he loves the thunderstorms, and he remembers the Earth's first thunderstorm, like it was yesterday. That's when it all started, isn't it?  
Aziraphale thrills to this thought. It's not the first time something like that crosses his mind, but it's the first firm, crystal clear answer - yes, something had begun there, on the Wall, something unprecedented, something ridiculous to think about, something impossible to ignore, like the lead rumble of dark clouds, like an angel lying to The Almighty but telling the truth to the enemy. Like the said enemy staring at him in disbelief.

The snow rushes up and down in the spots of light outside. It smells smoke and petrol there; there are humans out there, in the snow, in the night - they shoot each other, bomb each other, spy and snitch on each other; they save each other, they carry each other out of burning ruins on their shoulders, treat each other's wounds and fevers, send each other heart-wrenching letters, wait for each other from far away, stand for each other to death. Aziraphale loves this sorry space rock, ablaze with the raging fire of the war, just like that sword that used to be his, loves it so much it wrenches his own heart and burns his own soul, and if his sixty centuries old recusancy becomes too heavy for his angelic wings to lift, may he lay down in the earth, like a human who can't stand up anymore. For a fracture of a second this thought scares him, but there's no free space inside him for fear now.

Crowley stays silent, watches the road with his face still, and Aziraphale is grateful for that - who knows what can happen if he hears the demon's voice now, he won't dare to measure the height and the depth of his newly found courage; somewhere deep down there's a part of him that knows this feeling will pass soon, and nothing, nothing will come to its place. Does it matter now? Not in the smallest.

He picks out his memories, and holds them gently before his inner sight, and lines along the endless ribbon of time and history all that really matters. It's the widened yellow eyes, and the rainwater dripping from soaked feathers; it's the hissing in the darkness of the ark's inner depths - who goes there? - and the soft sniffing sound of someone's sleeping breath; Aziraphale then turned away and said "I didn't see anything" (it was absolutely true) and left quietly, and they never talked about those children. It's that the role of Hamlet is now considered the greatest honour for an actor. It's that Crowley had abolutely nothing in the world to do with the French Revolution. It's that the bookshop was actually opened in 1800. It's the gust of ice-cold shiver that rolled down Aziraphale's spine from the back of his neck when he read the two words note eighty years ago.  
It's also the heavy case covered in ash and plaster dust that must be leaving spots on his coat, and it's also his fingers that are still on fire.  
 _  
I'm so happy to see you again.  
I've been worried something had happened to you.  
Listen, the last time we talked...  
Anthony J. Crowley sounds really elegant.  
Won't you be in any trouble for this?  
Could you please take your glasses off for a minute?  
Lord, I'm such an idiot.  
Crowley, I..._

  
All these words are bursting out of him at once, getting stuck in his throat, and nothing can find its way out, and eighty years ago Aziraphale would probably decide that's better for everyone. Now Aziraphale suddenly realizes that eighty-years-ago-Aziraphale wouldn't actually convince himself.

Aziraphale thinks about the sky - the structure of the cope of heaven, the human Above. There are no cherubs and archangels in the human Above, no principalities and dominions, no golden shine, no white feathers. There's only vast, endless blue dome full of water and ice, of wandering winds, of stars chiming like bells that were lit by the bright wide-winged seraphs at the times unknown and untold. Lucifer was one of them; not-Crowley-yet was one of them, too, and the touch of the fingers that held gently the alphas and the betas still burns, and who in their mind would blame the candle for lighting up from an open fire?

It's not _I didn't call you with your matchsticks!_ , it's more like _pardon me, but I am a candle; my purpose is giving light, it's natural for me to burn, isn't it?_

Ah, those rebellious, dangerous, marvellous thoughts.  
He won't ever be braver than right now.

The wind is writing some unintelligible messages in the snow.  
The Bentley takes a turn and creeps along Greek Street from one dark crossroads to another. Aziraphale glances cautiously in the rear view mirror again - there it is, the piercing golden gaze that dark glasses can't really hide: he expects to feel a nervous jolt in his gut, but it doesn't come.

_So you've been watching me? Please, watch me. I'm watching myself as well: what a fascinating sight, what do you think? You are so smart, you are so attentive to details, to any changes, you are so sensitive - much more sensitive then you let yourself think, dare I say; I wonder what can you see in me now?_

Now this is more than dangerous thoughts. This is almost a defiance - to Crowley, or to himself, or to Heaven, the ethereal Above; it is sweet - sweeter than any food and any wine, sweeter than the apple picked by Eve, Aziraphale didn't taste it himself, he just knows it for sure. And yes - if his wings can't bear him anymore for this, may he stay in the cold dark earth, like humans do.

The car suddenly brakes at the crossroads. Here is the bookshop, its dark fogged windows staring blindly into the street.  
\- There we are. _  
Beautiful moment, do not pass away_ , Aziraphale thinks hopelessly and finally lets his right hand go to start jerking the door handle awkwardly with his left. Crowley watches him for a while, the corner of his mouth turned up, and then bends over Aziraphale and his case:  
\- Pull to yourself and up.

His sharp shoulder nudges Aziraphale's, and his breath nearly scourches the angel's cheek, and Lord knows (of course She does), Her creature was never closer to falling.

The air is chilled to crispiness. Aziraphale exits into the snowfall, his forgotten hat in one hand, the case in the other. Crowley closes the door behind him, emerges from the other side and props himself on the car's roof.

Aziraphale makes a very real effort to make his speech apparatus obey his will again.  
'Thank you.'  
'Never mind', Crowley shrugs offhandedly.  
'I am serious. This was... I just...' - Aziraphale silently shouts at all these impatient tangled words that want to burst out of him, pulls himself together and lets one single more or less refined phrase out of his chest:  
'What can I do for you?'  
Crowley watches him thoughtfully above his glasses - maybe thinks whether the angel went slightly mad since the middle of last century, or maybe counts the burnt fuses in him.  
'I mean... I'm just trying to say... well, this was really important to me, so...' - the words won't come out with ease, the words never come out with ease when they are not what you actually want to say.  
Crowley interrupts his twaddle:  
'Alright, answer one my question and that's a deal.'

Aziraphale freezes.  
'Wh - what question?'

'A Hundred Guineas Club? Really?'

Aziraphale drops his jaw. Almost literally.  
'Wait - what do you mean? How do you... I mean, it was... oh, Crowley!'  
The demon stares directly at him across the Bentley's roof with a broad grin.

There is no sense in shaming a candle for lighting up from a match.

'Crowley... wait.'  
Halfway down in the car, Crowley gets out again. Aziraphale's tongue sticks to his teeth again.  
'Thank you. For the books.' He almost hates himself.  
Crowley tips his hat and returns into the car.

Aziraphale takes a breath and gives himself the last chance.  
'It's... good to see you', he says to the dark shadow inside the car in an absolutely miserable voice.

The shadow seems to hear him and slithers out of the cabin and appears above the roof for the third time; this time Aziraphale doesn't look away.

Crowley smiles again - this smile is entirely different. One could launch some planets around this smile, and maybe some sort of an asteroid belt, if needed, and grow another Eden there somewhere, and Aziraphale would be the first one to volunteer to guard it.

  
'Goodnight, angel.'

Aziraphale watches the black car drive away from the circle of yellowish light on the crossroads, until it dissolves in the darkness, and doesn't notice, despite the cold wind, that his cheeks are wet. He wants to laugh; yes, the exhilaration will pass soon, but the knowledge will stay. He wants to laugh because now he knows everything about the structure of the cope of heaven, and about candles and matches, and about rains and thunderstorms; he wants to laugh because no war in the world's history can be more important than the knowledge that fills him to the brim and splashes out; he wants to laugh because deep down he knows he is right.

The wind sweeps the snowflakes and carries them up in a sweet defiance to the law of gravity, higher and higher, back to the sky, where the morbid-white rays of searchlights reach the clouds, and above the clouds there's nothing but wind, and ice, and stars ringing like bells.

Down there, under the clouds, an angel smiles at the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written by me in russian as a songfic inspired by Об устройстве небесного свода by Мельница. of all my attempts to translate my works into english this is the first one finished and uploaded on the internet, so congrats to me, probably. also the name happens to resemble st exupery's _Wind, Sand and Stars_ , this is not intentional and i find it amusing. also yes, i suck at world history and somehow missed the fact that london blitz was over by may 1941 while doing my research, IM SORRY


End file.
